St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in EnglandStevenson, Robert Louis
General
St. Ives: Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England
Stevenson, Robert Louis
French -- England -- Fiction; Prisoners of war -- Fiction
Whereupon Sim produced from the corner of his plaid a black bottle, and
we all drank and pledged each other. I found these gentlemen followed
upon such occasions an invariable etiquette, which you may be certain I
made haste to imitate. Each wiped his mouth with the back of his left
hand, held up the bottle in his right, remarked with emphasis, ‘Here’s to
ye!’ and swallowed as much of the spirit as his fancy prompted. This
little ceremony, which was the nearest thing to manners I could perceive
in either of my companions, was repeated at becoming intervals, generally
after an ascent. Occasionally we shared a mouthful of ewe-milk cheese
and an inglorious form of bread, which I understood (but am far from
engaging my honour on the point) to be called ‘shearer’s bannock.’ And
that may be said to have concluded our whole active intercourse for the
first day.
I had the more occasion to remark the extraordinarily desolate nature of
that country, through which the drove road continued, hour after hour and
even day after day, to wind. A continual succession of insignificant
shaggy hills, divided by the course of ten thousand brooks, through which
we had to wade, or by the side of which we encamped at night; infinite
perspectives of heather, infinite quantities of moorfowl; here and there,
by a stream side, small and pretty clumps of willows or the silver birch;
here and there, the ruins of ancient and inconsiderable fortresses—made
the unchanging characters of the scene. Occasionally, but only in the
distance, we could perceive the smoke of a small town or of an isolated
farmhouse or cottage on the moors; more often, a flock of sheep and its
attendant shepherd, or a rude field of agriculture perhaps not yet
harvested. With these alleviations, we might almost be said to pass
through an unbroken desert—sure, one of the most impoverished in Europe;
and when I recalled to mind that we were yet but a few leagues from the
chief city (where the law courts sat every day with a press of business,
soldiers garrisoned the castle, and men of admitted parts were carrying
on the practice of letters and the investigations of science), it gave me
a singular view of that poor, barren, and yet illustrious country through
which I travelled. Still more, perhaps, did it commend the wisdom of
Miss Gilchrist in sending me with these uncouth companions and by this
unfrequented path.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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